Food for Thought
by Chaos Angel Doll
Summary: Mangaverse. Legato, the empty shell of a man he once was, tries to fill his vacant soul with food and drink.


Hey everyone. I've been feeling weird lately, so I thought I'd try my hand at some Trigun fanfiction. This is really based on the whole episode in Trigun Maximum book two with Midvalley and Legato. For some people, Legato is completely tied to his master, bordering on obsession, and that loyalty and other qualities make him somewhat human. Here I speculate that he not only hates Knives, but that his being is essentially empty and he feels less than human. So, as evidenced in the manga and anime, he develops a very bad habit to relieve the pain; binge eating. As for time frame, I've only read up to Maximum four, and skimmed five, so it'll be after the death of Hoppered and Midvalley and the introduction of Elendira, probably after the fight where they all return home.

Rating is due to references to blood and other types of disgusting references. It actually borders on M, but I figured since there is no graphic violence and just references, I can get away with a T+.

Disclaimer: Trigun and Trigun Maximum and all related characters, concepts, and ideas are the property of Yasuhiro Nightow. I as using these concepts without permission, with no intent on profiting from this work.

As always, read, review, give constructive criticism, and tell me what you think.

Food had been his greatest pleasure. Sure, before that he used to love to kill, enjoyed the rush and the thrill and the smell of copper in the blood of his victims. Working in Master Knives' service had destroyed the amazement; he killed in the way that women knit in old wooden rocking chairs by the window and old men play checkers in the shade of the porch for pocket change. It was what he did, and he did it well, too well. He didn't have to use guns anymore, although he did now and again for the sport. Now he could just command a man to rip out his own heart and then use his lifeless body to shoot up his companions. It was just too simple. too easy, too boring.

He then turned to torture. He didn't really know exactly what that thing on his arm did, but it looked wicked cool. There was nothing he enjoyed more than the unadulterated terror on a man's face as the body count rose and the ground was stained red. He loved the expression of anger, despair, and most of all futility plastered all over the face of the Stampede like the headline of a Sunday-morning newspaper. It was very pleasing… for a time.

By the time Monev the Gale had died and Dominique had thrown herself to her death, his life had no purpose once again. Kill a thousand of the spawn that come from only the sand and the detestable human will to survive, and two thousand rise to take their place. Torture lasts only so long until the damned insects with their numbers decide to pester him and he finds no fun in that any longer. He was an empty shell, a diabolical murder machine; and that's all he was, a machine. A knife used by the most skilled knife-thrower in the world, but a knife all the same. So, to fill the emptiness inside his black heart, he filled the emptiness in his stomach.

Hotdogs, pancakes, chocolate, lollypops, hand candy, fine cheese, spaghetti and meatballs. Steak and vegetables and mashed potatoes all together on one plate, steaming hot, their juices mixing, and the ice rattling in a glass of cold whiskey. He would savor each delicacy in it's own glory, giving his sweet, sour, salty, and bitter taste-buds a workout before retiring for the night. It was his only tie left to humanity. He would eat almost anything, save for donuts for obvious reasons. There were no restrictions because, for some reason (he guessed it had to do with having the arm of a plant) he was able to burn all the energy and maintain his shape and fitness.

He loved the burning and tingling of curry, the sweet hotness of cinnamon, and the lightness of a sprinkle of powdered sugar. Sometimes he would shovel it all into his mouth. Sometimes he would sit for hours on end, well into the night taking in every delectable bite. Sometimes he ate with Hornfreak, Gauntlet, Blade, and once even with the Cyclops, who had tried to put the moves on him; usually he ate alone. The food filled his stomach and filled his soul and made him live made him something other than a shell destined to die in a war between two immortals with inane personal vendettas.

When he was finally done, he would think. The food made him lethargic, but his mind never slowed for an instant. He thought of news, the weather, and his current predicament. He thought of classical music and radio and anatomy, biology and history, ethics and psychology, anything at all to get away. With the quiet night air and the sounds of maggots getting into a bar-fight and beating the ever-loving crap out of each other downstairs, he was at peace. With his birth, his life, and his inevitable death. He could focus on things besides the sun-scorched rock where he dwelled. Food was his escape.

Thinking closely about it though, it wasn't just his escape from boredom. It saved him from the horrors of the life he lived. Blood might have sickened him once upon a time, and in a strange way he longed for something to touch his gag reflex, make his head spin, and cause him to vomit the evils of his soul all over the ground. So he ate to the point of sickness. He didn't have to live the pain when he was eating, when he was full and contented. He couldn't think about the death and hell and how he could drink the blood of innocents like the beer in his hands. It was just the savory and the sweet, the salt and pepper, the butter and the olives. He couldn't think of his family's disfigured bodies lying in the dirt, watching the scum of Gunsmoke violate them in mute horror so very long ago or his friends disappearing one by one by one, seeing each of their names on a list of deaths on the town bulletin board. He couldn't think of why he hated the humans, hated them so much. It kept him sane.

It was only two weeks ago that he was overseeing Knives' resurrection. Two weeks since the Stampede had shown to end their little conflict. Two weeks since the hole was put in the moon and another little town blinded by the awesome power of the Humanoid Typhoon. Two weeks since his beloved Master crushed him into the ground like a boot grinds a cigarette butt. Two weeks since he had died and gone to hell. It felt like that. His legs were completely broken in several places. Useless. Vertebrae protruded from a scarred and bruised back in horrible positions. The doctor didn't want to remove any for fear of damaging what was left of his spinal column. It didn't matter. He couldn't feel any more, so his legs didn't hurt. He couldn't move his arms, or most of his torso. He could barely even sense his own heart beating or his lungs breathing, his vital organs working by some medical miracle. All he could move were his shoulders, his neck, and head. His freedom was crushed like his spine.

He turned back to food, but it wasn't the same. The gigantic man, or whatever the hell it happened to be, carrying the living corpse had tried to feed him to very dissatisfying results. He could only eat now by shoving his head into his plate and gulping up food like a dog. It was no longer satisfying or relaxing, because he never felt the meat grilled to perfection or the cold salvation of ice cream hit his stomach. Eating no longer meant humanity because he could never be human again. The three metal and plastic walls on all sides never made sure to that. Food was now disgusting. It got all over his face, and he no longer had the power to even clean it up. He couldn't eat like a man, but a savage animal. The movement of his hands and his mouth no longer distracted him from the terror of his existence. Eating became a painful reminder of despite how powerful he really was he was truly just an insignificant speck, swimming in pain. He was crippled, meaningless, worse even than the insects that his Master was determined to destroy.

Ah, his Master, Knives-sama. Knives had done this to him. Knives smashed the life out of him, reminding the lowly slave that he was merely human, while Knives was a God. He hated Knives. He hated Vash, he hated everyone, and he hated himself for being a disgusting worthless human, powerless in the face of immortality. It was only two weeks, a fourteen-day eternity, and Knives was already replacing him. He hated Elendira. That bitch, if he could even call him that, was so damn smug! Elendira was more powerful than him, could move more than him, could live like he wanted to, and his makeup-smeared lips glistened as he smirked in front of the shell of a man. He was human, creepy to say the least, but still human. Elendira would die like the rest of them, sure, but for now… he couldn't think of it for long without breaking all the glass in the room with his sheer mental agony.

And so he is carried. He kills and kills and kills more, detailing reports from the Gung-ho Guns and watching as their numbers dwindle; it is expected. Rai-Dei is gone. Then Ninelives and Puppetmaster soon follow. Hornfreak dies next to Gauntlet, probably the closest person he had to a friend, and Gauntlet goes right after. He's now left with the most inhuman members of the guns; the Crimsonail, the Beast, and himself. The game is almost up. His madness has taken over, the last of his mental restraints that he kept secure with the food he gobbled now cut loose by hunger and emptiness. Now he thirsts for life, for death, for anything, but finds nothing in the sands of the dessert. He may not be able to taste anymore, but he doesn't care. He just waits while his sanity goes, and he doesn't care that his face is caked with dirt and snot and dust. His mind creates illusions, and he's losing it all steadily in a miasma of blood, but he doesn't care.

Legato Bluesummers knows that anything is better than this.


End file.
